Ghosts of Albion: Accursed (Ghosts of Albion #1)

Ghosts of Albion: Accursed (Ghosts of Albion #1) Page 11

The night air refreshed Tamara as she let Farris lead her out of the Egyptian Hall and onto the sidewalk.

Looking back at the building, she marveled at how anachronistic the hall's façade was compared with the rest of modern London. Large columns that stood like sentries guarding the front doors clashed with the honeyed brick and stone of its neighbors. She couldn't help wondering if Egypt really looked that way, or if she was only seeing an English bastardization of the genuine article.

"Miss, you're shivering," Farris said crossly. "We should wait inside, where it's a bit warmer." Even stocky Farris in his overcoat looked chilly in the London night, his breath wafting like dragon smoke around his mouth and nostrils.

Tamara shook her head, pulling her wrap more tightly around her shoulders. She would much rather weather the cold than go back inside where the atmosphere itself was stifling. The exhibit had been sparsely attended, but she was not in the proper frame of mind this evening. Its resemblance to a temple did not extend to the interior of the place, but still it had felt like a tomb to her. Mixed with the odor of paint and the dusty smell of ancient things, the air was entirely too oppressive.

Tamara found herself grateful for the crisp night air. The tension that had been knotted in her shoulders and neck seemed to evaporate as the cold raised gooseflesh on her skin.

"I feel better outside where I can see the stars, Farris," she said. "It's cold, indeed, but it's early spring in London town, and for once the wind is just right and the air is fresh."

Farris shook his head, tutting. "For a lass with such a keen mind, you've no common sense a'tall."

Tamara laughed, her thoughts clearer than they had been all day. She was grateful for Farris and his mothering, felt safer knowing he was looking after her. John must have thought it unorthodox to have her butler chaperoning their evening, as opposed to some widowed aunt or a proper maid, as was most common. But Tamara genuinely enjoyed contradicting society's conventions. Sophia was the sort of girl who wore one face in public, another in private. Tamara was only herself.

Truth be told, she was torn between despising Sophia for her duality and envying her the ability to adapt that way. Tamara possessed a great deal of passion, and it often caused her trouble. She spoke her mind far too often and too vociferously for most men's preference, and even then she preferred not to taint her family name overmuch.

It had occurred to her that writing penny dreadfuls under the pseudonym of T. L. Fleet placed her in the same sort of dichotomy as that Sophia practiced. Yet her own secret didn't feel nearly so duplicitous as the two faces worn by her brother's intended. This ought to have made her feel better, but somehow, the heiress's indiscretion left her somehow freer, and seemed more honest than any of Tamara's passionate declarations. For Tamara had never truly let go of her inhibitions. No matter how independent a girl she thought herself to be, she had never given her emotions free rein.

John appeared at her side. He had hired a cab for the evening, but the driver hadn't expected them to leave this soon, so John had been forced to search him out in one of the nearby free houses. The driver lit the lantern that hung on a hook at the front of the carriage, then climbed up onto the high seat at the front.

"Your chariot awaits, milady," John said with a smile that was halfway between rogue and fool, but entirely charming. Still, there was concern in his eyes.

Tamara smiled as he started to offer her his hand, but Farris beat him to it, helping Tamara into the carriage. Then he made his way to the front of the carriage, to climb up beside the driver. Tamara flashed John an apologetic smile. He just shrugged, taking the seat beside her and closing the door.

"I'm sorry for Farris," she offered. "He looks to me more as a daughter than as a charge."

"Then I'm grateful to him. You should be looked after, Tamara."

John's face was deep in shadows as the carriage began its journey back to Ludlow House. She wished that she could see him, that she could discern from his expression what he really meant by those words. In her mind, they were tantamount to a proposal of some sort, but without enough light to reveal his eyes, she couldn't tell for certain. And the lantern that rocked on its hook outside the window was not bright enough to dispel the darkness within.

"You're sweet," she said quietly. Her cheeks felt warm with her awareness of how close they were, of the fact that they were alone in the back of the carriage. They were out of the chilly wind now, but she did not try to tell herself the lie that this was the sole cause of the warmth she felt. The butterflies that she had hoped for earlier in the evening had finally made their appearance-better late than never, she supposed.

"Whether you like it or not, Tamara Swift, you are a very delicate creature." John turned with these words, facing her so that she could see his eyes now in the dimness, and his gray eyes were almost black in the darkness.

She suppressed the urge to laugh, to tell him that she was far-very far indeed-from the fragile English Rose he thought her to be. She opened her mouth to say as much, but John wasn't finished.

"When you fainted in my arms like that-"

Tamara felt her face flush with embarrassment, and she decided to hold her tongue. She was appalled at herself. Fainting like that . . . it was so entirely unlike her. And now she had given John reason to think she was just another demure female. A delicate girl, like a hundred others he had met and wooed.

"John, I-" she started, marshaling herself again, but he shushed her.

"Tamara, please." His smile, visible even in the gloom, made her catch her breath, and the heat from her cheeks spread quickly downward. "I know you're an outspoken girl, and I admire that, truly I do. But just for a moment, hush."

He took her hand in his, and she weakened at his touch. Tamara bit her lower lip to withhold the tiny cry that begged to be uttered, and cursed herself for entertaining the urge. This closeness, the warmth of his flesh, the glint of his eyes in the near dark, seemed to erase her hesitations about him, leaving only the powerful allure of the man himself. A fire licked across her belly, radiating downward. Like a flower turning to the sun, she felt herself yearning for him.

Tamara knew well enough how to ease the simplest aspects of the yearning, how to put her hand between her legs and move her fingers against the smooth wet flesh until her body jerked spasmodically against her bedclothes and she had to bite her pillow to keep from crying out. But she had never felt lust like this before, so that her entire body seemed afire, nor had she imagined what heat the touch of a man could elicit.

Caught in a cascade of conflicting emotions and influences, Tamara was at war with herself.

"I-" she began, but once again he silenced her, this time putting his finger softly to her lips.

Not only did she allow him to do so, but on impulse, Tamara took his finger into her mouth. He blinked in astonishment, then stared at her as the slick wetness of her tongue eased the friction so that his finger slipped back and forth against her lips, in and out of the warmth of her mouth. John let her continue for a moment, his eyes dark, with need, she assumed. She closed her eyes, enjoying the taste of his skin.

"What are you doing? Are you insane?" John rasped, his voice low. He pulled his hand away from her mouth and moved across the seat as far from her as possible.

"But . . . I thought . . . you wanted . . . ," she stammered.

Her eyes were wide, and they burned with embarrassment and with hot tears that slid down her cheeks and chin and down into the hollow of her throat.

Each tear was an accusation, a reprimand that came not from John, but from deep inside herself. She cursed herself for her stupidity, for thinking she could for a moment be free of restraints. Other women seemed able to throw off those bonds-Sophia managed it-but somehow Tamara had made a mess of it. For a moment her wantonness had felt wonderful and exciting, and now it was shameful.

William was right. I am a slatternly woman, she thought, biting her lip again to keep from sobbing aloud. She couldn't even bear to look at him, let alone speak to him again.

She had thought he was different, thought she had sensed a kindred soul buried inside the man who now rejected her. She realized now how terribly she must have misjudged him.

The cab came to a jarring halt, and against her will Tamara slid against John. She felt her breasts pressing against his chest, and her terror only increased. A moment ago his touch had been enough to stir her in ways unlike any she'd ever known. Now it horrified her.

She pushed herself away from him, her heart pounding.

She turned to open the carriage door, but John reached out and grabbed her hand.

"Tamara, wait! Please. I . . . I did not mean to use you so rudely. I was just . . . startled by your actions. Shocked, I should say."

She stared at him, desperately willing him to apologize, to help let her put the whole episode behind her. His flirtations had made his intentions clear.

Now that she replayed the scene in her mind, she was sure she had not imagined it. John had stoked that fire with great purpose, and then flinched away from it as though he had been burned. Could it be that he had actually intended to humiliate her, as he had humiliated William? Tamara couldn't find any other explanation for the way he had responded to her.

"I am sorry that I was hurtful to you, Miss Swift."

Tamara did not answer.

John sighed as the carriage began to move again. He glanced away as though searching for something in the darkness of the carriage.

"Tamara, I know you think of me as a scoundrel. Some wild, feckless fellow who goes about tasting all of life's fruits, with not a care in the world. But that is not the truth of the matter. Indeed, I am the antithesis of that image, though I am sure Sophia would lead you to believe otherwise."

Tamara nodded, but remained silent.

"I find you truly admirable, Tamara Swift, but I am not looking for a wife. I'm not immune to your charms. You are . . . really quite exquisite. But when I hushed you, it was with humor, to cheer and calm you, and to take a moment to collect my own thoughts. Seduction was not my intention."

She was glad now that he could not see her face well in the darkness of the cab. How embarrassing it was to misunderstand him so horribly. Oh, how she wished that she could disappear.

This last thought gave her pause-she could translocate, if she were so inclined. The thought of doing so in the midst of his earnest entreaty cheered her, and she almost chuckled at the thought of how John would react. Then he continued.

"I would like to see you again, to spend time with you . . . as a friend," John said, his voice pulling her away from her imaginings. "I think that you and I have more in common than either of us might imagine."

Tamara swallowed, her throat aching with the aftermath of her tears. She wiped at her eyes and raised her chin proudly. "I am not certain that would be possible, Mr. Haversham. I find myself rather stifled in your company-"

John leaned down and kissed her gloved hand.

"Please do not be embarrassed. It was an honest mistake, one that I am sure I myself must have led you to. You are a very lovely woman, Miss Swift. I am sure you must have many suitors. It would only seem natural that I should be one, as well."

Lovely, thought Tamara miserably. Now he assumes I am an egoist like his cousin.

"This has been an . . . enlightening evening, John. I will consider your request."

She knew her words sounded cool, but she needed time to evaluate what had just occurred, and what John had said. Tamara wasn't sure what she would do if he called upon her again.

She guessed he would not, though; that all of this was just his gentlemanly way of attempting to leave her with some of her dignity intact. Oh, how she hated him, and was intrigued by him all at the same time.

"Thank you, Tamara. I appreciate your candor."

He released her hand, allowing her to slip out just as Farris opened the carriage door.

"And thank you for your kindness, Miss Swift. I hope your evening was not completely horrid. I really do look forward to enjoying your company again soon."

"Good evening, Mr. Haversham," she said, taking a step away from the carriage so that Farris could close the door, which he did much too abruptly.

Her shame and humiliation were beginning to diminish as she climbed the few steps to the door of Ludlow House, and now they were beginning to give way to something else entirely. The desire she had felt for the man was all too real, the memory of it all too fresh. Tamara had never felt its like before, and she could not deny that she wanted to feel that way again.

And she had seen in Haversham's eyes-heard it in the tenor of his voice-that he desired her, as well. Why, then, had he demurred? She did not know. But she wasn't going to be satisfied with his offer of friendship. If John Haversham wasn't seeking to court her, so be it, but when next they met she would do everything in her power to make him realize that the mistake was his. She would make him want her, make his body yearn for hers the same way she had burned for him back in the carriage.

I must be insane, she thought happily as she reached the front door and went inside.

It was only upon stepping into the foyer of Ludlow House that the day's events came back to her and she realized that, for a short time, John Haversham had made her forget her grief. Perhaps she ought to have been grateful to him.

Instead, by the time she had reached the privacy of her own room, she was deeply ashamed.

DESPITE THE GRAVITY of the day's events, by the time William returned home late that night he was feeling pleased with himself.

The ghosts entertained doubts about his capacity to serve as Protector. It was a duty unlike any other, to defend England from all the powers of darkness and evil, and it required courage and discipline. William had always had a great deal of the latter. It was the former that they weren't sure of. Oh, they tried their best not to show it, certainly, but he knew just the same. In his heart, he had shared those doubts.

After all, Tamara was the more instinctual of the two of them, and the more perceptive, as well. Those traits had allowed her to adapt far more easily to both the knowledge of the magical world, and the power they had inherited. Tamara had shown a far greater facility with magic. That meant William would have to work that much harder than she, simply to fulfill the duties they had both inherited.

But he was up to the task. William Swift was nothing if not a hard worker, dogged and filled with determination. And in moments when he wasn't wrestling with self-doubt, he thought he might actually have the edge over his sister in a situation that required quick decisions.

He had acquitted himself quite well at the Carstairs and Widly residences. Had, in fact, achieved great success thus far in pursuing their present line of inquiry. The documents he had taken from Carstairs had proven invaluable.

He was aware, however, that it had been a near thing at Widly's house and that going about on his own was perhaps unwise. So William had summoned Admiral Lord Nelson, pulling him away from his own inquiries, and the two of them had proceeded together. They had spent the remainder of the evening visiting the other buyers to whom Carstairs had sold artifacts.

Most of the gentlemen William found at home purported to be horrified to learn that they had purchased stolen objects, but William could not have said how many of them were honestly ignorant of the origins of their purchases.

Where they found the man of the house not at home, the wives seemed genuinely repentant. Husband or wife, none of them balked at handing over the objects in question, particularly once he informed them that Swift's of London would guarantee their return, or some form of compensation.

Far more important than their cooperation, however, was the fact that none of them seemed to have been tainted by the curse.

At a number of the places they visited, they found neither the master of the house nor his wife at home, and where there was anyone to be found, the servants remarked that they had been absent for an extended and unexplained length of time. In some places, even members of the staff had gone missing, and William was convinced that they had fallen victim to the same curse that had claimed their masters. He wondered, deeply disturbed by the question, where they had gone and if they had somehow been drawn to one another.

Troubled or not, though, William Swift was quite proud of himself . . . or he had been until Horatio had related to him the information that had been conveyed by the spirit of Colonel Dunstan.

"Did your associate say how long the Indian population of the East End has been affected by this curse?" William had asked.

"There are indications that the trouble began as long as two or three weeks ago, I'm afraid," Horatio replied.

That news caused William to pause, and debate with himself how best to proceed. Their logic thus far had been sound. The artifacts had certainly seemed responsible for the transformations of Frederick Martin, Carstairs, and Widly, and the connection to the smuggled goods seemed obvious. If the curse was affecting those responsible for the theft of the statuettes, and their export to England, he supposed it was possible there would be Indian men involved in that criminal enterprise, as well.

The hideous by-product of the curse, however-the impregnation of women in those slums-that development was unexpected, and it seemed to be affecting persons who had no discernible connection to Carstairs and his illegal endeavors. The darkest of magics, affecting those who were entirely innocent.

Still, the artifacts seemed the only tangible element that linked the transformations. At least for the moment.

He was troubled, however, by Dunstan's suggestion that he and Tamara did not care about the evil plaguing Albion so long as it affected only the poor. It was not true, certainly. Had they known of the plague any sooner, they would have acted. Yet he did wonder if they had been vigilant enough; if there was a tack they might have taken that would have brought word of those horrors to them sooner.

In the end, William and Horatio determined to follow through upon their present course, and then decide upon the next step-undoubtedly an investigation of the horrors in the East End-when this phase was completed.

Currently they stood in one of the attic rooms at the top of Ludlow House staring at their handiwork: an empty room.

Together, they had decided that a cloaking spell was the best way to protect anyone from accidentally stumbling upon the artifacts. That, coupled with a binding and protection spell, would keep everyone in the household safe from the effects of the curse. Similarly, they had decided to keep the imprisoned victims here, as well, still restrained in the wine bottle. Removing them for any reason seemed unwise. As an extra precaution, William had placed a protection spell around himself before he had started to weave the wards.

Thus, the seven idols and the wine bottle full of diminutive creatures were rendered completely invisible.

"I think that should hold them," William said proudly. "Well done, Horatio. Well done, William."

Nelson shook his semi-transparent head in wonder at William's strange proclivity to address himself in the third person.

"You know, Horatio, while I confess that I'm pleased we didn't encounter any more of those monsters, I'm also quite troubled by it. Presuming our absent buyers have been afflicted like Carstairs and the others, where do you suppose they've gone?"

"I'm sure I couldn't say, though it worries me as well," the ghost agreed, his voice low and thoughtful.

There was a knock at the attic door, and Tamara burst in. "Byron said that Horatio had received news from a comrade. Are we going to investigate the slums of London this evening?"

William frowned. "It's already quite late, and we've not had an opportunity to discuss a plan of action. I think it might be wise to wait until tomorrow. And when we do expand our investigation into those areas, I must insist that you not accompany me there, Tamara. To have a girl along would be inviting trouble."

Tamara pointedly ignored him and, instead, closed the attic door and came farther into the room.

"We are the Protectors of Albion, William. We're quite capable of dealing with a bit of trouble."

William crossed his arms and gazed at her coolly.

"Could we discuss this later? Horatio and I are right in the middle of casting an extremely tricky spell. We're using an invisibility enchantment to hide the idols, in case anyone-or anything-should come looking. You're disturbing the delicate nature of the-"

"Oh, surely we're through with that business, are we not, young Master William?" Horatio asked.

William arched an eyebrow and stared at him. It was no secret that Admiral Nelson had a paternal fondness for Tamara, and enjoyed stirring the pot in her favor. Bodicea had confided to William that Tamara reminded Nelson very much of his own daughter, Horatia, who had been born out of his affair with Lady Emma Hamilton. Afterward, Nelson had married Lady Hamilton, following her husband's death. But Horatia had still carried the stigma of being illegitimate, so the admiral had never really managed a relationship with her. Bodicea expressed the opinion that it still haunted him, even long after his death, contributing to the way he doted on Tamara.

Tamara sighed. A tremor of what he thought was suppressed emotion went through her. "This has been one of the worst days of my life, William. Yet I keep my head high, and I forge ahead, because we have a duty. Regrettably, I learned little of consequence this evening. Mr. Haversham did confirm, however, that he was at the bishop of Manchester's party, and that the earl of Claridge, in the midst of the filthy transformation we have seen ourselves, attacked a young girl there. John himself tore the monster off her."

"So it's John now, is it?" William asked.

Tamara rolled her eyes and sniffed dramatically. "You have no need to worry where Mr. Haversham is concerned. He has made it clear that he would like to be my friend, and that is all."

William narrowed his eyes suspiciously.

But he held his tongue. It was obvious that she had been rather roughly charged with this knowledge, her pride wounded in the process.

"I see. And you learned nothing more?" William inquired hopefully. He was sorry to have forced his sister into an unhappy situation, but he was glad that John Haversham had embraced reason. He was no match for Tamara. His courtship would have only brought her dishonor.

"I am sorry that I am not a better spy, William. I fear that I did not feel very well this evening, and my interrogative skills were much dulled. But I am entirely prepared to make up for my earlier shortcoming."

"I trust you did your best," William replied. "Now, look, back to this discussion of the East End-"

"Yes, back to that," Tamara said archly. "As Byron tells it, we've word of this curse having spread to the Indian population that lives there."

"Yes," Horatio confirmed. In that strangely empty room, the lamplight filtered through the ghost and made him somehow both more transparent and more substantial, all at the same time. "Though apparently they think of it more as a plague than a curse. Colonel Dunstan was a highly regarded soldier of both English and Indian descent. His ability as a translator made him invaluable in the Seven Years War. Though only a teenager at the time, he distinguished himself admirably, and later became one of Wellesley's most trusted men."

"He believes that the plague actually originated in the slums, Tamara," William said. "We cannot be certain, of course, which is why I must investigate as the Protector of Albion-"

"Protector?" Tamara countered, her voice rising. "As if there were only one? Do not allow yourself to think for one moment longer that you are going to investigate this curse alone."

William took a deep breath. "Actually, I hadn't thought I'd be alone. I'd have the ghosts for company."

Tamara glared at him. "Just because I haven't been myself of late, William Swift, doesn't mean I intend to shirk my duties," she said hotly.

"Now don't argue, my friends-" Nelson began, but he stopped as both Swift siblings turned and glared at him.

"I think I shall go and visit Byron, and Father-or Oblis-or whoever is in residence in Father's body at the moment," Tamara said. "At least there I am given some respect."

At that she turned on her heel and stalked out of the room.

William raised an eyebrow as Tamara slammed the door loudly behind her.

"Women," he said under his breath. "They truly are an enigma to me. I find them harder to fathom than calculus, and I had once believed that was going to be the bane of my existence."

Even as he spoke the words, he heard the familiar low trilling noise that so often accompanied the manifestation or departure of a ghostly presence. He frowned, thinking Horatio had abandoned him, but when he turned he saw that Nelson was still in the room and that they had been joined by Bodicea.

The spectral queen held her spear as though it were a walking staff, but there was an uncommon wariness in her aspect. Normally her manner was as brazen as her nakedness. At first William presumed that she had overheard and was offended by his words.

"Bodicea, I assure you that I meant nothing by-"

"I have failed you," Her Majesty declared. Her gaze was grim as she lifted her eyes to regard him. "I allowed myself to be baited by the man, Carstairs. Or by whatever he had become."

William hesitated a moment. It was Horatio who asked the question.

"Bodicea," the ghost said, "what have you done?"

"I killed him. Inadvertently."

William sighed. He'd entertained the idea that they might still learn something from Carstairs . . . that if they could determine the circumstances of his theft of those particular artifacts, they might find the ultimate source of the curse. Now that possibility, no matter how remote, had been erased.

"Inadvertently?"

"He forced my hand," said the queen.

TAMARA TOOK THE stairs two at a time, propelled by her fury. She had spent the entire day vacillating between grief, anger, and embarrassment, and now, finally, anger had won.

She opened the door to the room in which her father was kept and barreled inside, unmindful of the conversation that was already in progress between Byron and Oblis.

"The last time I put the old Nebuchadnezzar out to grass-" Oblis was saying. With a gleam in his eye he paused to glance up at Tamara. The face was her father's, but the malignance of the demon's mind shone through. He looked at her so hungrily that she paused and shuddered, feeling almost as filthy as she had when Frederick Martin had pawed her that morning.

"Excuse me," Tamara said curtly as she turned to leave.

"Tamara, wait," Byron said. The foppish poet gazed at her with a mixture of guilt and concern, and floated in pursuit. Their conversation had, no doubt, been more than vulgar, but Tamara thought Byron looked rather sheepish for one who was usually so open about his debauchery.

"Tamara, please, forgive me," said the ghost. "Boys will be boys, you know . . ." He looked at her hopefully, but she shook her head.

"This isn't something that can be accepted casually, Byron! You are not chatting with some stable boy or poet. He is a demon, not some drinking companion! A demon that has possessed the body of my father. Simply the fact that you sit here sharing an easy camaraderie with this fiend feels like betrayal to me, and I have had enough of disappointment for one day!

"And don't think that your tone escaped me. I'm quite familiar with your lascivious insinuations and obsession with all things sexual. Honestly, can you not think of anything else? Is there no meaningful conversation to be had with you that does not involve carnal lust? What next? Shall we speak of my sexual escapades?"

The ghost and demon both gave her a curious look.

Tamara blushed, but did not look away.

"There are none, you fiends! I am unwanted!" She coughed, and realized her throat was raw.

"Excuse me-"

She spun and started toward the door again, not wanting them to see how upset she really was. As she flung it open she was startled to find Byron's ghost already in the corridor. Tamara looked back into the room, where Oblis watched warily from behind her father's eyes.

"Tamara," the spirit said, reaching for her with insubstantial hands. His eyes were kind, though, and without guile or accusation. "Come and tell Byron what has happened to his dear girl."

It was his manner more than his words that drained the anger from her. She bit her lower lip and shook her head as she sagged back against the doorjamb.

"I . . . I was made a fool of this evening," she began in a rasping whisper, not wishing for Oblis to hear.

Byron tried to put a supportive arm around her shoulder, but it only passed through her.

"Oh, Byron," Tamara said. "I appreciate the sentiment." She sighed and pulled a handkerchief from her pocket, dabbing at her red-rimmed eyes.

"A man, John Haversham. He invited me to an art exhibit at the Egyptian Hall this evening. I did not want to attend, after the news of the morning, but William insisted that I go. It seems I was wasting my time with a man not at all enamored of me, while William was off trying to prove his worth as a Protector . . . as the Protector, to hear him tell it."

Byron issued a sigh that seemed to ripple through his spectral form.

"You know that isn't true, Tamara. Your brother is constantly comparing himself with you-how could he fail to, when the rest of us do the same? But he saw your rendezvous with Haversham as an opportunity to pursue a line of inquiry he could not, even as he pursued a different route. Doubly efficient."

Tamara knitted her brows and gazed at him. "You sound suspiciously like Horatio."

"He did inform me of the events of the day, a short time ago." Byron gave her his most intimate smile. "But don't damn me to the Hell of Horatio's precious propriety simply because we are all fighting in the same war."

She couldn't help smiling in return. "I wouldn't dream of it."

"Good. Now tell me all about this man."

Tamara was surprised to find that she had no more tears. Instead the heat of her embarrassment and disappointment had settled back into embers of anger. "I thought his interest lay in courting me, but now he has said that he seeks only my friendship, and I have done a terrible thing-"

"Yes?" Byron asked, without bothering to veil the prurience of his interest.

Tamara shook her head indulgently. "It was nothing. A trifle, really. The troubling bit is that I made my interest known to him, before I was made aware of his lack of intention."

She took a deep breath and let it out through her nose.

"Now I am humiliated."

Byron began to laugh, but stopped abruptly when Tamara glared at him. "My dear, we have all been spurned upon occasion. I, myself, have been made a fool of more times than I care to admit. I once even found myself called out over a misrepresentation of interest-"

The door was still open to the old nursery, where Oblis was kept prisoner. From the gloom that lay within, Oblis snorted. "The girl informed you that she did not require your services?" the demon asked.

Tamara started and turned to stare into the room. Candlelight flickered on the walls, casting the face of her father in dancing shadows. She ought to have known better than to forget, even for a moment, how keen the demon's senses were. How Oblis seemed to survive by picking at their lives like a carrion bird.

"Not precisely," Byron said, eyes twinkling as he glanced once at Oblis, and then back to Tamara. "You see, I was certain this particular young man was of a more flexible persuasion. Sadly, he was not."

"Byron!" Tamara said, raising a hand to her mouth in faux scandal. "You're terrible."

"Oh, yes. Certainly," Byron countered. "But I've made you smile, and that is worth a galaxy full of stars. Now I must take a moment to speak with Horatio, since you have so kindly consented to watch your father."

"I have?" Tamara said.

Byron nodded.

"Yes, you have." And with that, he disappeared into the ether.

Tamara hesitated outside the room, but then forced herself to enter again under the watchful gaze of the demon. She sat stiffly in a velvet chair that had been a favorite of her mother's. Her fingers tapped the soft gray fabric that covered the armrests. When she was a little girl, her mother had spent many an hour sitting in this chair quietly embroidering. She had rested at her mother's feet, fascinated by the quick movements of fingers on the cloth-

"What memory are you thinking on?" Oblis asked, shattering the vision she had conjured of her mother's long, beautiful fingers.

"Nothing," she replied quickly. "Nothing of import."

Oblis stared. "Tell me more of your evening, Tamara."

"Are you mad?" she said sternly.

"Share the tale with me, and I shall make it worth your while," Oblis hissed.

Tamara rolled her eyes. "Nothing you could offer would be worth that abasement," she replied tartly.

"You think not? I know many things, my little pet. I can see the future, and it is black, black, black. But pray, tell me more of this John Haversham."

"I told you I would not," Tamara answered. "And besides, my life is of no consequence to you."

Oblis smiled, showing blackened teeth. Poor Father, she thought miserably. He had always been such a clean man.

"I can offer you advice, Tamara Swift. I can help you in your quest to find the source of this curse. This plague."

Tamara flinched and stared at him. But her interest had been piqued.

Oblis sat cross-legged on the floor, his hands clasped rapturously before him.

"What do you know of it?" Tamara said.

Oblis only smiled.

Her skin prickled with frustration and anger, but her curiosity got the better of her. If he had some knowledge of value, it would be irresponsible of her not to discover its nature.

"What would you like to know? What do I have to offer that you could possibly want, in exchange for information?"

"Tell me of your humiliation," Oblis said.

Tamara glared at him. "It was nothing. I told you-"

"Enough!" Oblis said in a terrifyingly loud voice. "I want to know what you did to humiliate yourself!"

She started to speak, but stopped herself. She took a breath and composed her words, before beginning again.

"I took his . . . finger . . . into my mouth . . ." Tamara's stomach turned as she spoke the words.

Oblis began to laugh gleefully.

"And then?"

She swallowed hard, but then braced herself, meeting his gaze with a steely glare of her own. "I suckled upon it."

Oblis clapped his hands together. "Yes! And did you enjoy it?"

She looked down at her hands before nodding. "Yes, I enjoyed it."

His laughter was giddy. "Of course you did, filthy girl. Of course you did!"

Tamara trembled with hatred for the demon, but she said nothing.

"Excellent. And what more?"

She frowned. "Nothing more. Isn't that horrible enough?"

"You're certain?"

"Completely," she said, shivering.

"All right, then. Now for your reward, as promised. A question. Why have you not sought the Protector of Bharath?"

"That is all my humiliation is worth?" Tamara said. "You promised answers, and instead offer a question."

Oblis nodded. "The question is its own answer. As to your humiliation, it was but a small thing, Tamara. You will experience far worse. Believe me when I tell you that."